Hope is the thing with feathers  
That perches in the soul,  
And sings the tune without the words,  
And never stops at all,  
  
And sweetest in the gale is heard;          
And sore must be the storm  
That could abash the little bird  
That kept so many warm.  
  
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,  
And on the strangest sea;        
Yet, never, in extremity,  
It asked a crumb of me.

Words

We live in a wired and weird world
where meanings of our words
are paper-thin tissue and torn
tarnished and worn by wear and War.

© M.L.Emmett

I watch the city burn
Through the vignette windows
Of tear-gassed souls.

And hell's fire ablaze
Between cracks of tears
Of childhood fears

For girls,
Always be that beautiful butterfly ,which is hard to catch..


For boys,
And always be that bad boy, with a good heart...